


Picking an Itch

by SansyFresh



Series: Angst and Stuff [3]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Eventual Friendship, Fighting, Gen, Hurt, P thinks all Sanses are the same underneath everything, Unhealthy Relationships, not healthy, so he hurts them first, sorta - Freeform, that they all just want to hurt others, they both have a lot to work through, they end up pretty good friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 20:20:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18431384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SansyFresh/pseuds/SansyFresh
Summary: Portugal is pretty sure Scratch is more than his outward appearance suggests. He's right, but not about the right things.





	Picking an Itch

**Author's Note:**

> This is a thing with Portugal, my boy, and Scratch, MessedUpEssy's Swapfell Sans boy! I hope I depicted him somewhat correctly TnT Anyways, Portugal is still at an unhealthy stage of interacting with others (he believes all Sanses just want to hurt others, deep down inside, because that's how his Sans was), so this doesn't start super healthy. It gets pretty soft towards the end though lol
> 
> here you go, Essy!

In the beginning, the two of them didn’t get along at all. Scratch was a small, intense ball of anger and frustration, and Portugal liked poking at him. It started more than one fight, mostly verbal at first, though a few of them were almost brought to blows before someone got between them and stopped it. Anytime Portugal found himself in the same room as the asshole he felt a prickle of rage in the back of his spine, something itching at him to pick at Scratch until he bled some emotion other than intense frustration and pride. 

There was something about this version of his brother that felt wrong. He’d obviously gone his entire life being told he wouldn’t amount to anything, and that had damaged his self esteem and built an unholy amount of pride in the small skeleton. Portugal wanted to see under the self assured mask Scratch put up in response to other criticizing him, or even his own brother bullying him (not that the others put up with a lot of that). He wanted to see what Scratch was really like, if he was anything like his own brother, for all his own brother would have killed anyone that spoke bad of him.

Which was why, when they’d both been invited to a BBQ at Papyrus’ house, Portugal decided it was a decent opportunity to finally see under Scratch’s armor. He accepted when Papyrus asked, giving him a simple “yeah, I’ll come.”

Papyrus hmm’d over the phone, Portugal imagining his sockets squinting. “Scratch and his brother will be there as well. Can you control yourself, or will I have to uninvite one or both of you?” It was a funny thing, Papyrus being one of the few that didn’t think Portugal and Scratch were just playing around when they argued. It was something they vehemently denied, being friends of any sort, but no one other than Papyrus and Sans really believed that they might have hated each other.

Portugal chuckled, crossing one finger over another as he confirmed, “Sure thing, Paps. Won’t be no trouble ‘t all.” Papyrus clearly didn’t believe him, but didn’t say anything as he told him the time and day that the BBQ would be taking place. In the two weeks before the event, he avoided the smaller skeleton, not wanting all of his hard work to be ruined just because he snipped at the asshole one too many times. He was going to get some real emotion out of the skeleton if it was the last thing he did.

Of course, once the BBQ came around and they all attended, Papyrus gave them both a lecture about behaving that neither of them really listened to, already gearing up for a fight. Portugal had an arsenal of carefully spun words planned, each of them set to pick at Scratch’s clear insecurities in an effort to get some kind of emotion other than pride. Maybe, he thought, if he pushed hard enough, Scratch would show his true colors. All Sanses were the same, underneath their shells.

In reality it did nothing but start a altercation that turned into their first real fist fight. Neither of them escaped without injury, Portugal’s scarred socket bleeding once again and Scratch leaving with a few cracked ribs. It felt… well, chastising to be taken home by a disappointed Papyrus, who healed him, gave him the Look, and then left. But to have seen some real anger from his experiment? Some real emotion that wasn’t clouded by pride and the need to appear put together? It was elating. 

He didn’t see the others for weeks after that, though he was sure they were still meeting and having fun. They just didn’t invite his sorry ass, not that he expected them to. He’d broken his word, not that it meant much in the first place, but Papyrus was still disappointed so he was left out. 

For the next few months he did his job, went home, cooked meals for himself, and watched tv. Nothing else really mattered that much, Scratch not even a thought in his mind. He’d gotten his proof, so nothing else mattered. At least, that’s what he’d thought until he was invited to a sleepover, Papyrus telling him once again that Scratch would also be there, and that he was to behave if he didn’t want to suffer the consequences. Portugal made his promise, no longer interested in riling up the beast, and the day before set about making up a large batch of peanut butter, chocolate chip cookies to take, since everyone was supposed to bring something.

Grabbing the plastic container of cookies out of the closet, Portugal checked to make sure nothing had gotten into them before placing them in his inventory beside his bag of clothes, pillow and blanket, before setting off. His car wheezed as he turned the key, though the engine picked up as he drove down the highway, headed for the suburban neighborhood Papyrus and Sans lived in. It was a small drive, longer than his typical trips but not so long he’d be pressed to leave early to get home. 

The other were all there when he arrived, Fell and Papyrus making a large dinner for them all while Blue and Scratch helped set up all the snacks and desserts everyone had brought with them. There were pies and various chips with dip, vegetable trays and pieces of fudge that melted in your mouth. 

Portugal ignored Scratch, for the most part, and as the night went on, it was obvious Scratch was ignoring him as well. He could tell Papyrus was pleased they hadn’t started a verbal argument, though he seemed tense about something. The more he studied Scratch, the more Portugal noticed that he seemed tense as well, though not because of his presence. No, something else was bothering the small skeleton and as much as Portugal didn’t care, he didn’t like not knowing. 

The majority of them all settled on the couches and chairs, a few taking seats on pillows and blankets on the floor as Papyrus passed out various flavored popcorn for everyone and a movie started. Portugal sat on a recliner in the corner, watching as the humans on screen hunted for some elusive creature, only to be killed by said creature in a horrible fashion. It was a gory movie, bloody and pointless, but it wasn’t his turn to pick anything so he stayed quiet, enjoying his pickle dusted popcorn. 

After four movies and refill on drinks (someone had broken out the liquor at some point, passing around shots of vodka and bourbon), Portugal was one of the few still awake, watching a love story about two monsters that both looked suspiciously like Mettaton. It was another pointless, plotless movie, but his movie (a respectable thriller about a woman and her children finding out they were ghosts) had already been played. Deciding he could eat a little more, his boredom making it very easy to feel hungry, he slipped out of his chair and into the kitchen, stepping over listless bodies that sprawled all over the floor. 

Papyrus had bought a jar of sweet pickles just for him, the label of a pickle with a face and a monocle creeping him out a little as he grabbed the jar and popped the lid off, fingering up a short pickle with his fingers and popping it in his mouth. The crunch and burst of flavor was perfect, a low groan leaving him as he finally abated that hunger. 

He’d been in the kitchen only a few minutes when he heard the thump on the roof, something clearly having been up there. He waited a few minutes to see if anyone else had heard and, in turn, was going to go check it out, but no one moved from the living room. After a brief check, he discovered everyone else had fallen asleep, the movie muted but still playing, lights shining and changing color over everyone’s bodies. 

Well. He could go check himself, and risk a possible encounter with a burglar or worse, a rowdy animal that would claw his eyes out. There was another thump as he thought about it, and as much as he wanted to keep his eyes, he wanted the others to stay asleep more. Dealing with them all had become more tolerable, but being woken up, half drunk and angry was not something he wanted to deal with.

So, gathering his bravery, he made his way to the back door, sliding it open and stepping out before shutting it behind himself with a click. The grass was wet with dew, the moonlight shining down and putting a silver sheen over everything. From here he could see the stars; not nearly as many as if you went out into the woods, but a respectable amount. He stood there for a moment, enjoying the view, when another thump rang out and he remembered why it was he’d come out here in the first place.

Turning back to the house, he grimaced as he took hold of the railing of the balcony on the second story, low enough to grab from where he stood, and pulled himself up. Climbing onto the roof itself was a long, drawn out process, in which he scrambled and cursed and most likely let whoever or whatever was up there know that he was coming. But, in the end, he was on the damn roof, laying on his back as he huffed for air, glaring up at the night sky. There was a quiet chuckle of amusement, Portugal turning his glare in the direction of the sound before his eyes widened. Scratch was sitting on the edge of the roof, staring back at him with challenge in his eyes.

He’d assumed everyone was inside, asleep. He hadn’t even known the little bastard had come out here, let alone been up on the damn roof this whole time. Sitting up, he scooted a little closer, until Scratch’s eyes narrowed. There was a respectable distance between them, Portugal turning his gaze to the roof for a moment. 

There, beside Scratch and nearly hidden behind his leg, was his plastic container of cookies. They were nearly all gone, only a few remaining hidden behind the pieces of bread Portugal had placed inside to keep them soft. 

Turning his look up to the sky, he asked, “Did you like ‘em?”

There was a sound of guilty shuffling, Scratch clearly uncomfortable. Why, he couldn’t tell. “They were good. A little too much chocolate though.”

That was clearly a lie, not even a good one. Portugal squinted up at the stars, wondering how he’d gotten in this situation, when Scratch spoke up again.

“You’re not supposed to like sweets.”

Portugal looked at him. “In your universe?”

Scratch nodded, bringing his knees up to wrap his arms around them. “It’s a weakness. Weaknesses get you killed.” His tone was serious, shadowed with guilt. It was the first time he’d seen the smaller skeleton like this, so weighed down by something other than pride or anger. 

Something about seeing him this way made Portugal’s soul ache. It wasn’t a feeling he liked.

“Well fuck that. Yer c’n like an’ eat whatever ya want’a. Don’t matter none here.” He didn’t say they were safe here, cause they weren’t. Nowhere was truly safe, not for monsters, especially not ones like them. But… being weak didn’t matter as much. Not around these bastards, who didn’t give a shit if you slipped and fell. They’d just help you back up and continue on with their day.

Scratch said nothing in return, but Portugal could tell he’d listened. That was really all he’d wanted, changing the little bastard’s mind could wait for a different day. Instead, he mumbled a “pass me a cookie.”, and laughed when Scratch all but threw one at his head like a knife. Catching it, he nibbled a bite, humming to himself. 

“Yer right. Could use a 'lil less chocolate.”

There was silence for a moment, before Scratch’s voice spoke up, nearly a whisper. “No, they were perfect.”

Portugal ignored the warmth in his face, and continued staring at the stars.


End file.
